Strangers We Know
by Vandenberg
Summary: You see off your brat of a little brother on his trainer journey, fresh out of school with a starly at the helm. For a while, life is immeasurably simpler… until he drops out of contact, with no clues to his whereabouts and an ominous syndicate on the rise. And thus begins a search, wading into waters better left undisturbed.


_Strangers We Know_

 **Summary** : You see off your brat of a little brother on his trainer journey, fresh out of school with a starly at the helm. For a while, life is immeasurably simpler… until he drops out of contact, with no clues to his whereabouts and an ominous syndicate on the rise. And thus begins a search, wading into waters better left undisturbed.

 **A.N.** : 2nd person narration? Terrible, right? I've rewritten this chapter grife knows how many times and I can't make the ambiguity work using 1st or 3rd person. That said, Homestuck was largely to blame. On to the story - hope you enjoy!

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 **Chapter 1**

( _soldier of a sinking ship, stowed far below_ )

It's the end of another day in the Soruen region, but today isn't just any day. Not for you. End of term exams are over, a nightmarish soup of theory and practical application all but fading into sepia memory. Friends and enemies alike call an uneasy truce, feuds backseated to the impending dangers of peacekeeping. Placements draw ever closer, and rumours about the mortality rate aren't just as funny anymore.

Part of you is glad for the wising up, and the rest is waiting for the other shoe to drop. People can say whatever they want, but it's going to be the fresh graduates being dealt the short end of the stick, as per usual. Nonetheless, there's a time and place for doom and destruction. You are but one of the fortunate few who managed to ghost away a mug of coffee, now cradled in your hands like priceless treasure. Victory is sweet.

Echoing down the main hall are snatches of banter and the sounds of an end of term celebration in full swing. If it weren't for your current location in the dormitory section, you'd have gone half-deaf from the bedlam. Even so, you are so close to graduating – to becoming a fully-fledged sentinel – that you're tempted to join the festivities. The night is young.

Only, you're otherwise occupied with something just as significant.

'So,' Donovan starts with exaggerated secrecy, voice tinged with static through the videophone speaker.

'So?'

An indigo badge blots out the screen momentarily before being withdrawn, revealing a manic grin. 'My fourth gym badge! And you said I wouldn't make it with my current team. Louis is a huge softy, I swear. Gym leaders nowadays are the real mystery here.'

You snort, taking a sip of lukewarm coffee before grimacing at the taste, 'coming from you, I find that hard to believe.'

'What happened to "acting supportive from now on"? Your words, not mine, bro.'

'Supportive, yes. Humouring your tangents, no. You're still a few years too young to out-sass me, Donnie.'

'That nickname. If I had the power to tear it from the space of reality and kill it with fire, I would.' An enlightening sentiment if it weren't for the fact that you'd heard the exact same thing two times in the past month. Beyond that timeframe, you've lost count.

'Should I be worried about your thinly-veiled inner arsonist?'

'Not until I catch that fire type at least. Slugma, I think? The drippy-burny one.'

'That sounds reasonable and not at all ominous,' you deadpan.

Shooting an amused look from the monitor, the brunette continues: 'I'm just yanking your chain, Glen! Even if I did light something on fire, I wouldn't share that sort of information with a sentinel in training such as yourself.' Was that a wink? …You feel a migraine brewing.

Raising an eyebrow, you launch into lecture-mode. 'Promise me you'll never get arrested. Don't even toe the line. The line is a living, breathing thing to be avoided at all costs. You'd make a terrible innocent suspect. Or arceus forbid you ever end up being guilty.' The temptation to preach was just. Too. Great. Though you aren't exactly kidding. On too many occasions have you heard stories about peacekeeper brutality. Or even the reverse with clandestine alliances gone sour, taking down one another and bystanders alike.

In retrospect, you're half certain the words are redundant. Donovan grew up to be surprisingly street-smart, all things considered, and you give yourself a mental pat on the back for not screwing up too badly in caring for him. Parents shmarents.

'Dude, you sound like one already. Who are you and what have you done with my brother?'

'For your information,' you begin, slightly affronted, 'I happen to sound like one because I'll be graduating soon.' Brat. 'After four years of blood, sweat, and tears might I add.'

Your brother leans back in triumph, but something seems. Off. 'How the tables have turned! Has that always been a sore spot for you, or is this new?'

That little—

'Nerves, actually,' you grind out, recovering with all the aplomb of a rock, 'I keep thinking "What'll I do if I get stationed at the next city Donnie will have to visit for a badge?" I shudder even considering it.'

'Messy execution. You're not even _close_ to living this down.'

 _Dear self. I'm not mad at you for getting one-upped by a fourteen year-old, just disappointed_. Time to abandon ship. 'How goes,' you wave a hand in a superfluous gesture, 'adventuring? Is Shiva up and flying about?' You'd be surprised if she weren't. From the time Donovan earned her as a starter, the starly had a tenacious streak a continent wide. Like trainer, like pokemon, you realise, fondly even? Who knows.

'I—not really,' a tight smile, 'they said it'd be a matter of months until she heals up. As for adventuring, same old same old.'

You're almost hesitant to broach the subject, but now seems a good time as any, 'thinking back on it, you never told me what went down,' you prod, cursing teen secrecy. Were you ever this difficult to handle? Oh wait, that's right, you were a hellion with no handler whatsoever. Still are, quite possibly. 'Can you imagine how surreal it was to hear it from an operator pulling the step by step procedure?'

A smaller voice. 'They contacted you?'

'I'm glad they did, though I was _this_ close to hunting you down personally, come hail or high water,' you scowl at the memory, '"good morning, health and support services speaking. Is this Glen Chaucer?"' you repeat in thick monotone, '"your brother has been absent to several check-ups scheduled in the past month," and a gruelling game of twenty questions later, I find out it was about your _staravia_ the entire time.'

The conversation falters for a moment too long, lengthy enough to notice, but too fleeting to comment on. The screen resolution isn't too great, but your brother seems to slump a bit in something close to… resignation? The action is preternatural, like some indeterminate part of the brunette flitting out of place.

Something new, or something missing. There's no placing it.

You feel a cold weight settle into your stomach, stealing away what little optimism you scrounged up prior. Even so, you wait it out. Donovan's always been the type to dispel silence, finding any noise preferable to a lack thereof.

'I'll… tell you about it later, deal?' he supplies, deliberate, 'you look like death warmed over, and I wouldn't want to cut into your beauty sleep any more than I already have.' An apologetic look, and he moves to cut off the call.

'Hold it,' you rush with a jolt as live wires of disquiet and exasperation convene, 'if you're in trouble—'

The feed cuts off with a simple _blip_.

'—you'd better 'fess up.'

So much for pseudo-parent prerogative, you muse with a whistling exhale through clenched teeth. _Breathe in_ , voices an instructor, their words fresh in your memory of the practical skills exam, sabotaged as it was. Someone was apparently taken into custody, but the supervisors didn't see fit to provide you an explanation, or the people sent to the infirmary for that matter. Business as usual for the peacekeeper department, but frustrating nonetheless. Thoughts returning to the present, you continue. _Breathe out. Irritation, as with all emotions, is a gift either accepted or rejected_ —

Aaa _aaaargh_. Who cares. You deserve a break, and sleep feels about the furthest thing from your mind.

You make your way to leave the booth, terrible coffee in hand, only. You hear an indistinct rustle amongst and apart from the buzz of celebration. The communications area isn't the neatest it's ever been – attesting to months of free-reign from juniors and seniors alike – so you briefly entertain the idea of someone sleeping under the incontrovertible mess.

Of course, _there's no way_ , you reason absentmindedly, digging through laundry, trampled trinkets, threadbare blankets, an assortment of pokemon pillows, and other miscellany with single-minded determination, coffee alone and forgotten on a chair short of one leg. When in doubt and an understandable amount of annoyance, physical exhaustion is the next best thing. Or so you hope, otherwise you wouldn't be able to rationalise snooping around, let alone _enjoy_ it, arceus forbid.

After what seems like ages into your expedition, the back of your hand grazes something suspiciously soft and _alive_ and.

'Son of a—' you snap back a now bleeding hand, displacing strata upon strata of disarray, mind running the mental calculations. The cloth next to you looks clean enough to use as a tourniquet, but that smell has to be coming from somewhere, right?

'Fuff, ruflett!'

It's… a rufflet!

Shock and horror. It was the dorm pet all along, infamous amongst trainee sentinels and instructors alike, loathed in a similar vein. Honestly, you can't believe you got worked up over an overgrown—oh. Haha. Nice avian. It'd be a shame to bloody your black, polished talons any further. You'll just. Take your leave. Right now, very quickly in fact.

Casting a wistful glance toward your hard-earned coffee beverage, you depart, abandoning it to the figurative elements.

You weave through twist after turn, corridor to corridor, past a number of partygoers napping in choice corners, courtesy of the occasional couch and improvised bedding, or a few lucid groups branched into their own after-fiestas. The route is poorly illuminated, save for the occasional emergency light casting yellowed silhouettes. The view is familiar, and you relax into a simple half-jog.

Interspersed along your path is an aftermath of contraband, and the coincident debris of litter. Wrappers, empty drink bottles, and the like. The peace-keeper's department is a mess. You can't imagine the state of the larger populated divisions. What were they… sovereign health support, alt administrata, and greater technology? If there's one thing you're confident in, it's the fact that you've butchered the bureaucratic name of at least one, which doesn't bode well for your exam results. You briefly consider the merits of curling into foetal position and dry-sobbing in defeat. Auspiciously, you spy an unoccupied couch nearby. Rest has never felt more inviting after outrunning mortal danger. You may or may not be exaggerating.

In the midst of counting mareep, you feel something thump against your leg and. What the ferrothorn—?

'lett! Uflet!' The chirps come out garbled, but they could only belong to one denizen.

Leif. That damned rufflet. No place to run, now – not that you're in a position or mindset to do so, nestled into a remarkably soft couch cushion. Nonetheless, you back yourself into a corner and resign yourself to your fate, shutting your eyes in anticipation. Death by evisceration, hopefully. Your dignity wouldn't accept anything less. For one thing, Donovan would laugh himself silly, likely spreading the story through whatever means necessary. Furthermore, Donovan. Physically laughing.

On second thought, fighting back sounds good. You brace into a tired approximation of a defensive stance.

Another thump.

Now isn't that underwhelming. Maybe you can sneak in a bit of shut-eye in the meanwhile—

'Oof!' The rufflet shoves into your side before jabbing with a talon insistently, occupying the remainder of couch space. Upon closer inspection, you notice a white, porcelain handle held in its beak, attached to what seems like the broken half of a mug speckled with spilled coffee. The pokemon bobs its head forward impatiently before you get the idea and relieve the rufflet of its burden, placing the half-mug on an adjacent lamp stand.

Was it… returning the mug from earlier? Sans coffee, but you catch onto the gesture nonetheless. Or at least you hope so.

'Thanks?' you probe, bewildered by the lack of bloodshed whatsoever. Your only reply is a lofty squawk as the flying type makes itself comfortable.

With the pokemon perched so close, you can't help but notice a streak of disturbed plumage on its back, unnoticeable if it weren't for the contrast of scar tissue from your vantage point. And arrive at an unwelcome insight.

You exhale, slow and deliberate, smears of information assembling into a crude tutorial of malice: Buried under layers of refuse and miscellany. Abandoned to a room rarely trafficked, let alone a majority curfew and blaring celebration. Leif's defensive reaction and your own bloody wound.

Infamous, amongst trainee sentinels and instructors alike.

Not for the first time, you consider abandoning the sentinel corps altogether. How were they planning on protecting people and pokemon alike when they were unable to combat crimes amongst their own? Leaning into the couch, you file away the thought for later, feeling restless.

The stains along the sleeve of your uniform jacket have long congealed, a triad of angry red slashes now running across the back of your right hand. It is very, very late into the night, a chill swathing the building, inevitable and inescapable.

You undo the coat and, with conservative flair, drape it over Leif and yourself. The rufflet seems to blink wide eyes in ambivalent alarm, watching the action with caution borne from experience. You continue gently, tucking the edges into the couch, moving gradually. Finally, you finish.

'Good night.' You reply to an expectant silence, feeling sheepish and at the same time satisfied. And so you fall asleep, thoughts of the earlier conversation dulled to white noise.

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That wraps up the 1st chapter. I do have a plan for the rest of the story in mind, but might leave it as a one-off due to real life shenanigans. Thanks for reading!

-Vandenberg


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